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accident,"
Arnie said. "Why did he
want to talk to you and Mom about something that was an
accident,
for
Christ's sake?"
"I don't know." Michael Cunningham paused. "Do you?"
"How would I?" Arnie yelled. "I was in Philadelphia, how would I know
anything about it? I was playing chess, not… not… not anything else," he
finished lamely.
"One more time," Michael Cunningham said. "Is something going on, Arnie?"
He thought of the smell, the high, rotting stink. Leigh choking, digging at her
throat, turning blue. He had tried to thump her on the back because that's what
you did when someone was choking, there was no such thing as a Heimlich
Maneuver because it hadn't been invented yet, and besides, that was how it
was supposed to end, only not in the car… beside the road… in his arms…
He closed his eyes and the whole world seemed to tilt and swirl sickly.
"Arnie?"
"There is nothing going on,"
he said through clenched teeth and without
opening his eyes. "Nothing but a lot of people who are on my case because I
finally got something of my own and did it all by myself."
"All right," his father said, his lackluster voice once more terribly
reminiscent of Mr Slawson's. "If you want to talk about it, I'm here. I always
have been, although I didn't always make that as clear as I should have. Be
sure to kiss your mother when you come in, Arnie."
"Yeah, I will. Listen, Mi—"
Click.
He stood in the booth, listening stupidly to the sound of nothing at all. His
father was gone. There wasn't even a dial tone because it was a dumb…
fucking… phone booth.
He dug into his pocket and spread his change out on the little metal shelf
where he could look at it. He picked up a dime, almost dropped it, and at last
got it into the slot. He felt sick and overheated. He felt as if he had been very
efficiently disowned.
He dialed Leigh's number from memory.
Mrs Cabot picked the phone up and recognized his voice immediately. Her
pleasant and rather sexy come-hither-thou-fascinating-stranger phone voice
became instantly hard. Arnie had had his last chance with her, that voice
said, and he had blown it.
"She doesn't want to talk to you and she doesn't want to see you," she said.
"Mrs Cabot, please, if I could just—"
"I think you've done enough," Mrs Cabot said coolly. "She came in crying the
other night and she's been crying off and on ever since. She had some sort of
a… an experience with you the last time you and she went out, and I only
pray it wasn't what I thought it was. I—"
Arnie felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. Leigh had almost
choked to death on a hamburger, and her mother was afraid Arnie had tried to
rape her.
"Mrs Cabot, I have to talk to her."
"I'm afraid not."
He tried to think of something else to say, some way to get past the dragon at
the gate. He felt a little like a Fuller Brush salesman trying to get in to see the
lady of the house. His tongue wouldn't move. He would have made a lousy
salesman. There was going to be that hard
click
and then smooth silence
again.
Then he heard the telephone change hands, Mrs Cabot said something in
sharp protest, and Leigh said something back; it was too muffled for him to
catch. Then Leigh's voice said, "Arnie?"
"Hi," he said. "Leigh, I just wanted to call and tell you how sorry I was about
—"
"Yes," Leigh said "I know you were, and I accept your apology, Arnie. But I
won't—I can't go out with you anymore. Unless things change."
"Ask me something easy," he whispered.
"That's all I—" Her voice sharpened, moved slightly away from the
telephone. "Mom, please stop hanging over me!" Her mother said something
that sounded disgruntled, there was a pause, and then Leigh's voice again,
low. "That's all I can say, Arnie. I know how crazy it sounds, but I still think
your car tried to kill me the other night. I don't know how something like that
could be, but no matter how I work it over in my mind, it comes out seeing
that that was how it was. I
know
that's how it was. It's got you, doesn't it?"
"Leigh, if you'll pardon my French, that's pretty fucking stupid. It's a
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